


Again, Again, Again

by vials



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 04:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14300676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: Henry thought he of all people should know just how quickly a person could die, just how comparatively little force or effort had to be expended to end a life. A punch here, a push there, the wrenching of an arm in just the right way – what did it matter, in the end? It had all finished the same way, with a man dead by Henry’s hand.Someone died at the hotel that day, but it wasn't Henry.





	Again, Again, Again

Richard picked him up from the police station, which for some reason surprised Henry. He had been expecting to call a cab, or maybe even walk; he hadn’t called Richard, hadn’t asked him to pick him up, but nevertheless he was there. Henry had been standing in the small parking lot, blinking in the harsh morning light, trying to orientate himself, when his own car had screeched to a halt beside him. Richard had been hunched over the wheel, peering at him through the passenger side door. He looked as exhausted as Henry felt, his eyes shadowed and wide, his clothing in disarray. To Henry’s slight discomfort, the sleeves of Richard’s shirt were still covered in blood, brown now, dried. 

Henry didn’t move, still trying to catch up with the turn of events, and Richard leaned over and opened the passenger side door.

“Get in, would you?” he asked, and finally Henry remembered how to move. 

The journey was short and passed in silence. Henry didn’t ask where they were going, nor did he ask about anyone else. He wanted to sleep but he knew it wouldn’t come, no matter how much he would like it to. He felt heavy and sluggish, the world whipping past the window in a blur of colour, the sound of the tires on the road hypnotising. He gave himself into it, knowing that it would be the closest thing to sleep he would get for a while.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when they pulled up outside his own house, but somehow he was. Getting out of the car, staring over its roof and looking at the familiar building, the bright garden, the windows half-open and the curtains fluttering behind them… it all seemed alien, strange, like there should be some huge difference, something that played homage to the earth-shattering events of the last twelve hours. 

“Here.” It was the first thing Richard had said to him since the police station. He held out Henry’s keys, looking as though he were going to throw them to him before thinking better of it. “You should probably take these back.”

Henry nodded, taking them as he passed. They walked through the garden in silence; Henry unlocked the door with minor difficulty, scraping the key against the lock before he finally managed to insert it. Richard spoke again just as Henry pushed the door open.

“Francis is here,” he said, quickly, as though a worried afterthought. “Should have told you sooner, actually. Slipped my mind.”

“You were waiting here?” Henry asked, glancing at him.

“It was closer,” Richard said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Is it just Francis?”

A pause, slightly longer than necessary. Henry pulled the key out of the lock and turned around to face Richard properly. He looked as though he had begun to say something and then stopped himself; he closed his mouth as Henry turned, standing there with whatever mental dilemma he was having flickering over his face. There was more blood on him than Henry had originally thought – it coated not only his sleeves but was present in smears across the front, and Henry knew that more would be visible had Richard’s jacket not been black. 

“Camilla’s still at the hospital,” Richard eventually said, seemingly realising that Henry wasn’t going to let the question go unanswered. “I’m not sure when she’ll be leaving. She knows we’re here, if she wants to get a cab, or she’ll call if she needs a ride.”

“Do you think she’ll want to be anywhere near me?” Henry asked. His voice was steady, the words said simply. Richard watched him in silence, as though trying to discern what emotion, if any, had inspired them. Henry held his gaze for a moment and then turned away, stepping into the house. That question, at least, he was happy to leave unanswered.

The house was silent, and checking in the living room and kitchen found no sign of Francis. Henry found him when he went into his room to find a change of clothes for Richard; sprawled on the bed, it was evident that Francis had likely been asleep since Richard had left. Henry moved quietly, barely making a sound as he gathered some clothing, and Francis didn’t stir.

“He’s in my bedroom,” Henry reported, when he returned to the living room. “Asleep. I left him alone.”

“I suppose one of us has to get some rest,” Richard said, a weak attempt at humour. “What’s this?”

Henry held the clothing out. “It will be rather large on you, I’m afraid, but I really must insist.”

Richard looked as though he were about to protest, before he glanced down at himself and realised that Henry wasn’t offering out of politeness. Henry supposed he hadn’t noticed – Richard’s face went slack with shock and then recovered itself; when he looked up at Henry it was to give him a brief nod and stand, taking the clothing from him.

“Just leave yours with the rest of the laundry, in the bathroom,” Henry told him, and Richard gave another nod and vanished from the room.

Henry stood where he was until he heard the bathroom door click closed, and then quite suddenly his knees went weak and he collapsed into the closest chair, his chest tight, his breathing ragged. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, pushing his glasses up to press his fingers into his closed eyes. No matter how hard he pressed he couldn’t shake the colour – red, blood red, and if he allowed it he knew it would soon take shape, no longer vague but sharp and detailed, blood on clothing, blood on the carpet, blood on the wallpaper.

He opened his eyes with a soft gasp and sat up straight, pulling his glasses back into place, forcing the noise and colour from his head as he heard the bathroom door open. By the time Richard returned he had centred himself, managed to pull himself loosely together, and when he turned to Richard there was no evidence of the last sixty seconds on his face.

Richard looked nothing short of comical. The shirt was far too big on him, even tucked into his trousers, and Henry’s jacket practically hung off him at the shoulders, the sleeves almost completely covering his hands.

“How do I look?” Richard asked, gesturing. 

“It’s a nice colour on you,” Henry replied, and didn’t miss the look of relief that flashed across Richard’s face – that it wasn’t another blank look, wasn’t another silence. “Do you want a drink? I could use several.”

A minute later saw them sitting on the edge of their respective seats, hunched forward so they could keep themselves well supplied with alcohol – the measures were not lasting long in the glasses. The first two drinks passed in silence, until the alcohol had hit Henry with a second rush of energy, burning through the exhaustion and finally enabling him to take stock of the last several hours. 

“You were all released quickly, I assume?” he asked, and Richard looked up, briefly alarmed, as though he hadn’t expected Henry to ever bring it up again.

“Yeah,” he said, recovering. “There wasn’t much to say, to be honest. We all told the same stories, obviously, because it’s what happened. They let Camilla go quite quickly. An officer drove her to the hospital. She was quite upset, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Henry nodded, and once again said nothing.

“What about you, though?” Richard added quickly. “They obviously believe us, because here you are. You’re not on bail or anything like that?”

“No. They assessed the evidence and agreed it was an accident, born from self-defence. Grappling with a loaded gun quite often goes wrong, or so they say.” Henry drained the rest of his drink and poured himself another, nudging the bottle over to Richard when he was done. “I couldn’t tell them for sure what happened. It was all so quick. I don’t even know who caused the round to be discharged.”

“None of us do,” Richard admitted, taking the bottle. “I couldn’t really see. Francis said he couldn’t, either. I haven’t asked Camilla yet. Charles jammed the gun at you, you twisted his arm, there was a bang and that was that. I mean, possibly it was Charles himself. Reflex, or maybe the angle.”

“The angle from the force I used to twist his arm,” Henry said simply, “which makes me perhaps even more responsible than he. There’s no getting around the fact that Charles is dead because of me.”

“In your defence, Henry,” Richard said hesitantly, “he did barge in and point a gun at you. What were you supposed to do? Sit there and let him kill you?”

“Perhaps I should have done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t see how this is any better.” Henry took a large sip from his glass and set it back down on the table perhaps a little too heavily. “Either way, another person is dead. At least there would have been some reasoning for my death. It would have meant something, it would have made a sort of sense. Charles’s death means nothing. It was a ridiculous set of circumstances, aligned to the worst possible outcome.”

“It was an accident,” Richard said firmly. “Henry, absolutely nobody thinks you wanted to kill Charles.”

“Charles did.”

Henry’s words hung heavily over the room. Richard thankfully didn’t try to argue with him, though Henry could tell from the expression on his face that he wanted to. How he could bring himself to, Henry didn’t know. For as long as he lived he would never forget Charles’s dying moments – the look of anger on his face, the way he had pointed at him, even as thick blood had spread across the front of his shirt.

“ _I told you!_ ” Charles had said, over and over again, angry at first, loud, and then gradually weaker. “ _I told you! I told you he’d kill me!_ ”

“Henry,” Richard began weakly, and Henry looked sharply at him.

“What? You heard him. You heard what he said. He was right, wasn’t he? I did kill him, after all. He was dying, and that was all he wanted to say. That I would kill him, that he had known, just like I suppose Bunny must have known. Perhaps he might have been thinking that himself. His dying moments and that was all he could do – look at me and say that, again and again. Not even a word for Camilla.”

Richard had nothing to say to that, either. Henry was glad. He didn’t think he could deal with hearing somebody make excuses for him. He knew that Richard would mean well, he even knew that objectively he wasn’t incorrect – it was one of those things, one of those tragic accidents, rather like the first murder he had committed. Henry thought he of all people should know just how quickly a person could die, just how comparatively little force or effort had to be expended to end a life. A punch here, a push there, the wrenching of an arm in just the right way – what did it matter, in the end? It had all finished the same way, with a man dead by Henry’s hand. Intention had faded from the narrative altogether. It was all the same, and he felt no better about any of them. Was it really any more forgivable that he hadn’t meant to? By that logic Bunny’s death was the only real murder, which seemed like a gross injustice when all three of them lay dead because of the same man. Who was he to say what qualified? To attempt to do so would be an attempt to exonerate himself, and Henry felt no desire to do such a thing.

The silence was shattered by the phone ringing, shrill in the hall. Richard gave a small start but Henry barely reacted, the dread that had pooled in his stomach at its sound barely making it to any outward expression. He had been lifting his glass; his grip tightened on it, knuckles white. He should get up, he supposed, and answer it, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. To his left, Richard seemed similarly frozen.

In the end, neither of them had to worry about it. It only took a couple of rings before stumbling footsteps could be heard; Francis, still half asleep, hurrying from the bedroom.

“God damn it,” he mumbled sleepily, as he passed the living room door, and the phone stopped mid-ring as he snatched it up. “Hello? Camilla! How are you doing? Yes, we’re still here. I think they’re back, yes. I haven’t seen them but Henry’s car is outside. Do you need someone to come and get you? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Alright. You’re coming—oh, you’re coming _here_? Well, Henry’s—oh. I see. Alright. I’ll ask him. OK. See you soon.”

Henry and Richard had twisted themselves to face the door by the time Francis stuck his head in to see if they were there. The look of alarm on his face when he saw them already staring would have been humorous had the situation been any different. 

“Oh,” he said weakly, “you _are_ back.”

“A good thing, considering that’s what you told Camilla,” Henry said, and Francis looked at him with something strange on his face. Henry didn’t think it was resentment, but it certainly wasn’t the look of somebody who was at his most comfortable. 

“I suppose so,” he said, before his eyes travelled to the glasses on the table. “You’ve been drinking?”

“I’ve had a few.”

“I guess you need them. How long did they keep you?”

“Until around nine this morning. We haven’t been back long.” Henry spoke briskly, not wishing to rehash the events again. “What did Camilla say?”

Francis stared at him for a moment, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and then shook himself out of it. “Well, she wanted to make sure you would stay here, is all. She’s coming back here.”

“Why would I leave? This _is_ my house.”

“Well, you know. I guess, because of the situation…” 

Suddenly Henry couldn’t stand it. “I killed her brother,” he said coolly. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Ex—um, exactly,” Francis said quickly. “Well, I suppose she just wanted to make sure you would be here, and not leave because you thought maybe she didn’t want to see you. She wants to talk to you. I’m not sure what she’s going to say, of course, but I said I’d make sure you’d be here.”

“Does she need a ride?” Richard asked hastily, and Henry sat back in his seat, staring at nothing in particular. 

“I imagine so. She didn’t mention a taxi.” Francis paused again, his eyes falling once more on the half-empty bottle. “I suppose I’ll be picking her up, then?” 

Henry said nothing; Richard gave an almost apologetic nod. Francis hovered in the doorway for a moment, and then almost gratefully made his exit, mumbling something about how he had better head off. 

They said nothing until Francis had left, closing the door quietly behind him as though hoping not to draw any further attention to himself. 

“Are you worried?” Richard asked, and Henry slowly looked at him, the exhaustion hitting him with full force once again. 

“It will happen however it happens. Worrying about an inevitability would be pointless.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. She’ll know it wasn’t intentional.”

“I doubt that would matter, all things considered.” Henry reached out and drained the last of his drink, setting the glass down and then leaning back in his chair, the buzz of the alcohol no longer doing anything to slow his racing thoughts. “She will feel how she feels, and I will accept it. I daresay it’s the only judgement I’m going to get.”


End file.
